


The Dangers of Seduction and Other Romantic Pursuits

by HoWeLLing



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: But He Gets Better, Farkas being adorable, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Mage Altmer Dragonborn who is really just a troll in disguise, Skyrim Kink Meme, Vague Internalized Homophobia, Vilkas being an accidental douche, and BAMF, and Farkas is totally gay but totally insecure about it, and Jarl Balgruuf being BAMF, and we love him anyways, do not be fooled by his nice guy attitude, or maybe because of it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-17
Updated: 2014-11-17
Packaged: 2018-02-25 18:11:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2631380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HoWeLLing/pseuds/HoWeLLing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Farkas realized early on that girls were excellent friends, excellent shield-siblings, and, most importantly, capable of chillingly creative methods of castration. All reasons to give them the utmost respect. Farkas also realized early on that small, cute noses and pouty lips and the pale mounds protruding from a girls’ chest were not in the least bit appealing. At least, not to him. This realization was made all more apparent when a cute village girl threw herself at Farkas with drunken abandon and he had felt the urge… to do nothing. Other than help the poor girl home, of course. And if he and a friendly, affectionate boy were sidetracked afterwards in an alcove for some frantic, exploratory fumbles… well, neither would say a word. Which was good, because if being a Companion had taught Farkas anything, it was that if you swung that way, then it better be only where no one could see it.</p><p>Or: In which Farkas is very much gay, Vilkas is an accidental ass, and the Dragonborn just really wants to get in Farkas’ pants, but falls head-over-mage-robes in love, instead.</p><p>Note: Being edited and continued as of 10/28/17</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dangers of Seduction and Other Romantic Pursuits

**Author's Note:**

> NEWEST Author's Note: I started this story years ago, and it showed. The writing was cringy, the characterization was all over the place, and the chapters and line breaks were clunky and and overused. Despite all that, I still really, really love this story. It was one of the very first things I wrote with the intention of posting, and it holds a special place in my heart. Maybe that's why I kept coming back to it, year after year. Who knows. What I do know is that now, I have enough edited and reworked to start reposting it again. From the beginning. So here it is, reworked and - hopefully - of much better quality.
> 
>  
> 
> OLD A/N: So this is basically the back-story of how my Altmer Dovahkiin managed to trick Farkas into his bed, and then somehow his heart. Please note, that while in the actual game, no one gives to shits about whether you're gay or straight - which is fucking awesome, don't get me wrong - I've always kind of been fascinated by the idea of a Skyrim that regarded homosexuality, and just sexuality in general, like we do today. Basically, it's okay, but some people are still assholes.
> 
> I'm not really sure how long I'm going to make this, with every word I write the characters are determined to build more back-story for themselves and I am helpless in the face of their muse power, but the chapters after this are probably going to get significantly longer. And if my muses have anything to say about it, this might be the beginning of a series.
> 
> So with that being said, please enjoy.

Even beaten and bloody, Farkas figured it wasn’t the _worst_ job he had ever been on.

There were Draugr scurrying about the crypt like insects, yes. There were Silver Hand skulking around every corner, the smell of their silver weapons nearly driving Farkas’ Wolf into a frenzy, _yes_. But he hadn’t run into any spiders yet, thank Talos, and frankly there were only so many enemies Farkas could cut down before even this Oblivion be damned crypt started to run dry.

Pausing to catch his breath, the Nord downed a couple healing potions, lip curling at the taste even as they did their job just fine. He threw aside the empty vials, heedless of the shattering glass. He didn’t waste his time trying to sneak.

The tunnels he’d found himself in were eerie and dank. Water dripped through cracks in the ceiling to collect in small pools all around him. Farkas’ had no choice but to splash through the muck, boots soaked through, fur wet and clumpy. The rest of his armor was drenched in completely different liquid. Most of the blood wasn’t his.

Continuing down the tunnel, Farkas tried to gauge how close he was to the inner-sanctum. In this crypt, with its winding paths and countless dead ends, the most he could do was guess. Hopefully not much longer. 

He left the tunnel behind and entered a large antechamber, his footsteps echoing off the high ceiling and a familiar smell burning his nose. He drew his weapon with a sigh. Not a moments later, a new wave of Silver Hand flowed from the shadows, spitting harsh curses as they approached. 

It was not the _worst_ job Farkas had ever been on, but as a familiar screech preceded more Draugr rambling into view from a side tunnel, Farkas conceded that it was certainly close.

An hour and a veritable army of walking corpses later, Farkas stumbled into the Sanctum with a groan, chugging the last of his health potions as he went. It was only years of practice that let him stomach so much of the vile taste at once.

He stopped short at the sight of a tall robed figure standing over the remains of whatever Draugr Overlord had occupied the room. The figure whirled to face Farkas, clearly caught off-guard. He didn’t look Silver Hand and he didn’t _smell_ it, but then one never knew.

Besides, even worse, he was clearly a mage.

The silence hung awkwardly in the air for a moment as Farkas ambled forwards. He decided that at that height, the stranger must be an elf. Probably High Elf. “What’re you doing here?” He said, stopped at a neutral distance, close enough for a quick attack. Far enough for a quicker retreat.

The stranger cocked his head to the side. The hood obscured most of his face. “I might ask you the same question.”

Farkas raised his hand to the hilt of his sword, threatening. The elf remained unruffled. “I asked first,” Farkas said.

Something like a smile stole across the stranger’s lips, but it was hard to be sure. “If you must know,” the stranger said, sighed, though his tone remained pleasant enough, “I’m looking for an artifact.”

Farkas blinked, chewing over the words. He had a sinking suspicion. “It’s not a ring, is it?”

The stranger frowned. “Ah,” he said. “I don’t suppose it’s a coincidence?”

“Mm,” Farkas hummed, shifted his weight to stand more on the balls of his feet. “No.”

“Wait,” Hands held up, palms empty and open, the stranger retreated a few paces. “There’s no reason to fight.”

Farkas hesitated, fingers tight on his sword hilt.

The stranger’s hands blazed white.

Farkas snarled as a stream of lightning collided with his chest. Damn mage. Rolling with the force of the energy, Farkas scrambled back to his feet and threw himself behind the Overlord’s coffin just in time to dodge a nasty fireball. His hands shook faintly as he clung to his weapon, the feeling of countless needles prickling from fingertip to shoulder. Farkas _hated_ magic.

“We don’t have to fight,” the mage said, voice bouncing off the high ceiling like a bell.

“High talk, elf-witch.” Farkas spat back, mostly habit, scouring his brain for a solution.

He needed to find better cover and buckle down. Fast. A mage might have the advantage at the start, but drag the fight out long enough and see how quickly the tables turned. As Vilkas liked to say, mages were all flash and no thunder.

A faint smell tickled the edges of Farkas’ senses. The Wolf made a sound of near rabid fury, and Farkas knew exactly what it was. Only silver could frazzle the beast like that.

The Sanctum door rebounded off the wall with an ear-splitting crack, and Farkas curled his nose in a futile bid to lessen the stench as a ragtag band of Silver Hand streamed into the room. Arrows started flying through the air. With a yelp, the stranger dove behind the coffin with Farkas. The Nord eyed the mage with equal parts distrust and amusement.

“Not Silver Hand, then.”

“Who?” The mage ducked low as an arrow clipped the coffin rim not a step from his face, cursing impressively in a language Farkas couldn’t ever recall hearing.

This close, the hood couldn’t hide his face.

He was a High Elf. A High Elf with perfect lips and a sharp jaw and high, prominent cheekbones topped off by the most golden eyes Farkas had ever seen.

Oh.

_Oh._

Damn mage.

Before Farkas could scrape his jaw off the floor, a group of the Silver Hand flanked their cover and charged forward. They met a swift end by a blinding swell of lightning. The spell sprung from victim to victim like a living thing, and Farkas’ eyebrows migrated rapidly towards his hairline. That was a whole lot more powerful than the lightning from before.

“Listen,” the mage said, gasping, hands crackling with power, “I am sorry I attacked you. Truce?”

Farkas tore his eyes away from the sizzling remains of the Silver Hand and eyed the elf with something akin to wonder. The moment was broken by a new rush of enemies flanking from the other side. Farkas surged forward without thought, stopping one quick man from lopping the elf’s head clean off his shoulders. “Truce!”

Between arrows flying through the air and the ring of steel setting his teeth on edge, Farkas was constantly aware of that fierce power rippling around the room. The smell of fire and ice and _lightning_ tickling his nose. The raw feel of it made his hair stand on end. He might have been tempted to watch, were he younger and more green, but long years of experience had taught him to never take his attention from a fight, and he cut down men left and right.

Even still, Farkas was one man in a sea of many. The elf was a stranger – and a mage no less. Farkas could hardly depend on him to cover his back. For good reason, apparently, as pain erupted in his side, under his breastplate and sliding between his ribs. He bellowed suddenly, _fiercely_ , angry.

Struggling to regain his balance, he brought his greatsword around in a deadly arc, decapitating the quick-footed bastard and forcing another back. The move made his head spin and he retreated a few paces. Warm, thick blood ran down his side, the flow strong enough to worry. The Wolf clawed at the back of his mind, eager to take advantage of any weakness.

His enemy inched closer, cautious. They both knew exactly what nature of beast lurked inside Farkas.

Then with a spray of blood warm blood, the man collapsed to his knees. He stared down at the spear of ice impaled through his chest with wide eyes before he slid to the ground with a faint gasp. He did not draw another breath.

Stubborn, the Wolf surged forward again, but Farkas batted it aside. The battle was over, clearly, and there was no need of it. For a long moment Farkas thought the beast might fight, but then it slunk back to the recess of his mind. Not before it crooned, suddenly very eager as Farkas watched the mage approach. He silenced it with a vicious mental shove.

“Are you alright?” The elf said, long legs rapidly eating the distance between them. He looked little worse for wear.

Farkas would have laughed if he weren’t so sure it would hurt worse than Oblivion. “Fine,” he managed to say, hoarse, and recoiled when the mage reached for him.

The mage paused but did not drop his hands. “No, you are not,” he said. “Let me help you.”

Farkas hesitated. His body decided for him. He lurched to the side as the room swam, vision going grey and blurry around the edges. The mage caught him with gentle hands. “Please,” he said.

Farkas let his silence be answer enough.

The mage guided Farkas back until he met the wall, propped him against it before beginning the process of peeling the Nord out of his armor. The mage’s expression darkened at each strap undone. Farkas took that as a bad sign. As the last strap fell away, they worked together to remove Farkas’ jerkin and armor. In the style customary to Skyrim, the plackart and pauldrons were connected by thick leather and made one piece, for which Farkas was grateful. He wasn’t sure he could have lifted his arms again if his life depended on it.

The mage crouched for a better look. Nude from the waist up, Farkas was hyper-aware of the elf’s touch, holding back a shiver that had nothing to do with cold or blood loss.

Long elegant fingers felt, tentative, around the edge of the wound. It was both wide and deep. The mage made a faint sound of concern. “I can heal the damage easily enough,” he said, focused intently on the wound, “But you have lost quite a bit of blood.”

Farkas mulled that over for a minute, mind fuzzy. “It’s fine. That’ll be enough.”

And it would be, for a werewolf.

The mage looked unconvinced, but his hands began to pulse with a warm golden light. Farkas hissed. The sensation of flesh and tissue mending through unnatural means never failed to make his skin crawl. “Yes, yes,” the elf said, distracted, “Just bear with it.” He ran a pink tongue across chapped lips.

Farkas nearly groaned at the sight. Flustered, he tried to focus on the far wall. His eyes kept drifting back to the mage without his permission. Farkas said, “Seems like a waste to heal me before you fry me.”

The mage grinned, sheepish, peering up at Farkas from under the brim of his hood. “I do apologize. I might have been a tad… hasty.”

Farkas surprised himself with the laughter that bubbled in his chest. “Just happy you didn’t hit me with whatever you got _those_ bastards with,” Farkas said, nodding towards the room at large.

The sea of corpses were an excellent, if morbid, testament to the mage’s skill.

“Yes, well,” the mage finished with Farkas’ side and stood. He stayed close, hands hot with magic as they ran across Farkas’ torso, healing a myriad of smaller wounds and bruises. “I had no intention of killing you.”

Farkas’ throat had gone bone dry, heart racing like it might beat right out of his chest. This close, the elf’s scent overwhelmed him -- books, herbs, and the faintest hint of steel, all tied together by a powerful, spicy undertone that must have been magic.

“You healed these with potions, yes?”

The mage’s voice shattered Farkas’ daze. “What?”

Those brilliant eyes shone with laughter. “Your injuries. Why do you use potions instead of magic? There are at least a dozen simple spells I can think of that would be more effective.”

“No.” Him using spells? Farkas snorted. “No. Companions don’t use magic.”

The mage faltered, for a moment, brow furrowed. Understanding dawned with a blink. “Of course,” he said, huffed in a burst of exasperation. “ _Nords_.”

The ensuing silence hung heavy for a moment. The mage said, “I have heard of these… Companions, was it? Are you here on some kind of quest?”

Farkas didn’t say anything right away. The jerkin, soaked from the chest down with blood, was a lost cause, but he couldn’t wear steel over nothing. He reluctantly pulled the sopping cloth over his head. At least he didn’t hurt anymore. The mage helped as he slid the armor into place, reaching around to do up those hard to reach straps. His smell tickled across Farkas’ nose. “A job,” Farkas said, quick, before he could regret it.

“Which is to get the ring?”

Farkas nodded.

The mage reached into the small pouch at his waist and pulled out a silver ring. It was plain, all things considered, with only a single sapphire set into the metal, but it gleamed faintly with the magic of enchantment. More importantly, the design on the side was a perfect match to the picture Farkas had been shown a few days earlier.

“I believe this is what you’re looking for.” The mage held it out, but Farkas made no move to grab it. His inherent distrust of all things magic welling up to surface, handsome High Elf or no.

“Why?”

The mage said, “Would you believe me if I claimed a guilty conscious?”

Farkas crossed his arms. With a sigh, the mage reached forward and grabbed the Nord’s hand, pulled his arm forward to drop the ring into his palm. “Just like that?” Farkas bared his teeth.

He knew there was some kind of saying about gifts and horses, but…

“Just like that,” the elf said.

They fell into another uneasy silence, until finally, Farkas tightened the last strap of his armor and stuffed the ring into a side pouch. “Alright,” he said.

The mage beamed. “Good,” he chuckled, reached up to rub his jaw with a faint grin. “Good, I- I would not want you to be troubled for failing your task. You saved my life earlier. With this I might repay you.”

Farkas shrugged, uncomfortable. “The way I counted it, I still owe you.”

With that, the Nord edged away, careful not to turn his back too soon. The mage only watched him leave, an expression Farkas couldn’t place twisted across his elegant features.

As the man left the crypt a little while later, stepping into the brisk, biting chill that was a Skyrim afternoon, he decided that it wasn’t the worst job he had ever been on. The mage’s sheepish grin flashed across his mind.

No, not by a long shot.

* * *

As the days turned to weeks, turned to months, Farkas struggled to put his strange encounter with the High Elf behind him.

It was difficult, at first, when all Farkas could think about were perfect lips and high cheekbones and golden eyes. Farkas wanted to bash his own head in. Paranoia was a constant bedfellow.

Could the other Companions sense the change in him? Would they finally notice Farkas eyed the city men more than he ever did the women? Would they finally realize that not a single wench in Skyrim could claim to have taken him to bed? Gods, the thought sent chills down his spine.

Vilkas noticed _something_ bothering him right away, of course, as did the rest of the circle – they could smell the tension and stress coming off Farkas like a beacon. But Farkas knew how to play up being the fool. Eventually, they all wrote it off as something not worth worrying about. Farkas rarely kept secrets from the pack, and never ones that might be a danger to the whole. They were content to live and let lie while Farkas laid awake at night, alternating between cursing his stupid cock and damning High Elves to Oblivion.

Eventually, Farkas woke one day and forced himself to stop thinking about mages and elves and stunning smiles, and instead thought about practice or his next job or how long he could push it without a change before the Wolf went rabid.

Slow, _achingly_ slow, it worked.

The bone-deep, irrational fear – hope? – that the elf would reappear in his life dwindled as time passed. Soon the Nord all but forgot, except for the occasional dreams that Farkas would deny until they put him in his grave and beyond.

His days once again revolved around training, drinking, and sleeping. Repeat as necessary.

The monotony was simple. Soothing. Farkas didn’t like complications. He didn’t like to plan ahead or worry over things to come. Life was easier that way. He kept the boredom at bay with work and sated the Wolf with the occasional hunt. Eventually, Farkas regained enough confidence to satisfy a different kind of hunger.

Time passed, monotony unbroken. Farkas reveled in it. He fell back into that easy complacency that required little thought or planning. Vilkas or Aela or Kodlak were more than happy to step-up, after all, and do the thinking for him.

Just the way Farkas liked it.

* * *

With winter just around the corner, Skyrim had seen fit to blast her people with a fit of cold that warned of harsher times to come. The sun set quickly under the horizon, fleeing the snow, her last rays dancing tauntingly across the land before disappearing altogether. Farkas weathered the freezing temperatures in the way only a Nord could, with naught but the steel armor on his back and the fur lining his boots to keep the chill the away. Stepping into the Bannered Mare, a stubborn gust of wind nipping at his heels, the Nord shook the snow from his hair and shoulders like a hound.

He scanned the crowded tavern for his brother. Vilkas had fled the hall earlier, having returned not long ago from a job, and Farkas had promised to meet his twin at the Mare for a pint. It’s not that they grew tired of Jorrvaskr, so much as they occasionally wanted to murder the people inside it. Farkas supposed that was proof they were really family.

A loud, distorted shout from the far end of the room drew his attention a second before Vilkas’ scent reached his nose. _Litter-mate_ , the Wolf rumbled, as close to affection as the beast could get. Farkas ignored it in favor of following his sibling’s call. “Didn’t think you would make it,” Vilkas said, shouting to be heard over the roar of music and laughter.

Farkas shrugged, but smiled all the same to see his brother again. It always made him antsy when his twin went on a job alone – much to Vilkas’ exasperation – and it usually took both him and the Wolf a day or so to stop hovering. It was one of the few, perhaps only, things they could agree on.

Vilkas held out a tankard and Farkas took it with a grateful grunt, collapsing into a chair. Their table sat about as far from the fire pit as could be, a luxury offered by Hulda to the Companions, and relatively uncrowded. Farkas swallowed his ale with a hum, savoring the burn of it down his throat. Vilkas did not follow suit. “What’s wrong?”

Vilkas shrugged, distant, ran a hand through his dark hair. “Heard some strange rumors in the Market, is all.”

Running his tongue thoughtfully across his teeth, a habit he’d picked up from his canine counterpart, Farkas examined his brother with a critical eye. The older twin made a show of ignoring him, gaze fixed out across the tavern. Before Farkas could press, Vilkas said, “Someone new in town,” he wet his mouth with a long drag of ale. “A mage.”

Farkas blinked. He mentally ran over the rumors he’d heard. No one had said anything about a mage coming into town, and that was the kind of news that spread like wildfire. Vilkas said, “He arrived a short time before me, and went straight up to the Keep.”

Now Farkas’ interest was well and truly caught. Not often a newcomer, and a mage at that, received an audience with the Jarl. His older brother hesitated, and Farkas felt torn between concern and amusement. Vilkas was usually much better with words. “They think it’s the same mage from before. The one everybody called the Dragonborn?”

“Really?” Farkas jerked forward, eager.

He’d been on a job when the dragon had attacked the western watch tower, and forever regretted the missed opportunity to meet a Dragonborn. To be able to kill something with your _voice_ – Farkas couldn’t wrap his head around it.

Vilkas sneered. “Try not to sound so excited. He’s a mage, for Talos’ sake.”     

Farkas shrugged. Dragonborn trumped mage, in his opinion. Plus, he hadn’t always had bad experiences with mages. Realizing his thoughts were about to go down a dangerous path, Farkas tore his mind away from friendly mages and focused back on his brother. “So is it really him?”

“I don’t know,” Vilkas said, which must have hurt something fierce. Farkas nearly laughed aloud at the pinched look on his face. “Probably not.”

Vilkas suddenly stood, downing his the rest of his drink in one go. “I need another. You?”

Farkas would get no more from his brother – the older twin looked ready to descend into a full sulk if pushed – Farkas obediently followed his example, chugging his the last few sips of his ale.

“Aye.”

Farkas woke the next morning with a wicked hangover and some idiot pounding on his door.

Stumbling out of bed, the Nord tore his door open with a sound so animalistic Farkas half-thought he’d changed in his sleep. It had happened before. Thankfully, Aela stood before him.

“You trying to give away our secret? Snarling around like a fool. It’s a wonder we haven’t been discovered,” though her words were harsh, the Wolf let him hear the story underneath, _sorry to wake you, pack-brother_.

Farkas yawned, talking beyond him at that point, and rested his head against door jamb with a grunt. The cool wood felt like bliss against his overheated skin. Aela snorted in pure disgust, but her lips twisted into what might have been a smile on anyone else. On her, it was a fierce baring of teeth. “A Companion is needed at the keep. 

Farkas didn’t bother to respond, just closed the door and started to gather his things. He saved his armor for last. Always a bitch to squirm his way in and out of the unyielding steel, it was the only part of being a warrior that he genuinely disliked. He stopped to drink deeply from the water pitcher, uncaring as rivulets escaped to soak into his clothes. He was half-tempted to pour the whole damn thing over his head, but quickly set it aside before the urge – or the Wolf – goaded him into it. One of the few things Kodlak asked of them was that they at least look civilized when they got called to the Keep.

The Companions often took jobs for the Jarl. Always some task he wouldn’t risk his own men on. They were more often than not truly miserable affairs and it had long been decided that only members of the Circle could take them. Skjor was already on a job, Aela planned to leave for one shortly, and Vilkas had only recently returned. That left Farkas, thank Talos.

It was about damn time.

No doubt Kodlak could sense Farkas’ bloodlust building to the limit, constantly egged on by the Wolf lurking in his brain. It was dangerous for one with their particular curse to stay stagnant too long. Generally, it lead to a lot unnecessary bloodshed and a lot of hard questions.

Once ready, or as ready as he could be with the fuzz lingering in his brain, Farkas left Jorrvaskr and began the short trek up to Dragonsreach. The sun hung drowsy in the sky, a series of clouds obscuring her light at regular intervals. They were dark and heavy, swollen with moisture. Farkas wondered if they would bring rain or snow. One sniff at the frigid air told him it would be snow. Grimacing at the thought, Farkas hurried the last few steps, nodding to a few guards in passing.

Sliding inside the massive entry doors, Farkas stifled another yawn as he searched the large room for Irileth. The Jarl rarely gave assignments directly; the Dark Elf or that mewling milk-drinker Avenicci were the people to see.

On cue, the Housecarl stormed from a side room Farkas knew to belong to the Court Wizard and charged towards the Jarl. Farkas’ enhanced eyes easily caught the grimace that stole across the man’s face. Farkas could sympathize: Irileth on a warpath was a force of nature. Farkas’ attention was torn from the potential bloodbath by another figure. Tall and robed but with his hood down, he trailed behind Irileth at a safe distance. 

And all at once, Farkas’ monotonous, uncomplicated life shattered to pieces around his ears. He noticed, somewhere in the far corners of his mind, that the High Elf’s blond curls were cut much shorter than Farkas would have guessed.

The elf hadn’t seen him – an elven _mage_ and, oh Talos, he was the _Dragonborn_ – and Farkas held back from fleeing full tilt to Jorrvaskr through pure force of will. Or, more likely, because his feet had lost all function from shock. The mage, perhaps feeling Farkas’ wild-eyed stare searing into his back, turned. Farkas flinched as the same eyes that had haunted his dreams for _weeks_ focused on him.

It was roughly like getting hit head-on by a mammoth, which Farkas was qualified to say. Maybe worse.

The elf grinned. Farkas noticed – distantly, _furiously_ – that the bastard didn’t look even a little surprised. The Wolf jolted awake, coming to life and crashing against his consciousness in clumsy, excited wave that did little for Farkas’ lingering hangover. 

The Nord watched, heart sinking straight past his stomach and to his toes, as the elf walked towards him. He came to a stop less than a stone’s throw away, still grinning. He said, “I was hoping you were the Companion who would answer Balgruuf’s summons. He made it sound like a game of chance.”

Farkas couldn’t speak past the lump in his throat. He stared, wide-eyed and panicked, lips sealed tight. The elf’s smile fell as the silence stretched between them. “You remember me, do you not?”

 _Remember_?

How could Farkas _forget_? This was the bastard who’d turned him into a mess. The elf grinned, white teeth striking against his tanned skin. “So you do remember. Something wrong?” He laughed. “Khajiit caught your tongue?”

“ _You_ requested a Companion?” Farkas had never reacted well to taunting. He hoped that snarl he could feel rumbling in the back of his throat wasn’t loud enough for the mage to hear. 

Farkas would bet good coin that it was. 

The elf remained undaunted, but his grin took a shy, sheepish edge. Farkas’ anger rushed out of him with a faint whine. Damn. He scrambled to gather his bearings.

“The Jarl has need of my skills, but agrees that his brave Thane should not face such dangers alone,” the elf had the gall to shrug, as if convincing a Jarl of _anything_ was completely commonplace.

“A Thane has a housecarl,” Farkas said, mouth a step ahead of his brain. Nonetheless, insult to a high-ranking member of the Jarl’s court aside, there really _should_ be a Housecarl about somewhere. 

Farkas offered to search for them.

The elf laughed, waving his hand absently through the air. “Oh, she detests me. Always going on about carrying my burdens.”

Farkas pitied the poor woman.

“Dragonborn!” A voice, Irileth, called.

She was furious. Farkas looked behind her towards Balgruuf, half-expecting the man to be well on his way to Sovngarde. He seemed relatively healthy, if a little worse for wear.

“Irileth,” the mage said, smile never faltering.

Farkas wondered if he had a death wish. One could hope. Irileth growled, disdain oozing from her every pore. The mage remained disconcertingly cheerful in the face of her wrath. Farkas realized with a jolt that he _enjoyed_ it.

Damn mages.

“Have you finished harassing the Jarl? Or are you planning to distract him with more tall tales? Some people are trying to get actual work done around here.” The Dark Elf kept a hand on her sword, fist clenching and unclenching, knuckles turning white from the strain.

She made it clear that if the Dragonborn wasn’t finished before, he _was_ now.

 _Dangerous_ , the Wolf mused, and Farkas could imagine a long tongue flickering out over sharp canines, _difficult prey._ The Companion mentally snarled at his wolf to be silent. He edged away from the two elves in the meantime. “Irileth,” the mage said, not so much as batting an eye in the face of her wrath. “The Jarl is perfectly capable of stopping me should he wish to. If he neglects his work on occasion to relax… well, Pantheon knows he needs the respite.”

The elf had nerves of steel, Farkas would give him that. Irileth sneered, but Farkas could smell it as some of her anger faded. “Just get out,” she pivoted sharply on her heel and stalked away, pausing only to call over her shoulder, “Companion, you’re to go with him,” and then she was gone.

“Ah, a Companion is to _accompany_ me,” The Dragonborn said, and then chuckled.

Farkas wondered if fleeing back to Jorrvaskr was still an option.

Instead he followed, dazed, as the mer made his way down the stairs and out the Keep doors. “Farkas, was it?”

He grunted. The thane took this as agreement. “Excellent,” he said. “We did not have the chance for introductions when we last met.”

Farkas grunted again. The mage laughed. “Not one for words, then?” He slowed to stop, grinning down at Farkas over his shoulder. “Not a problem. You will hardly need them for a job like this.”

“Like what?”

The elf grinned.

Arelil Laraethaere, as the mage introduced himself, was both the most confusing and irritating person Farkas had ever had the displeasure of meeting. Crippling attraction aside, Farkas couldn’t decide whether he wanted to punch the bastard or laugh in his face. “We’re going _Dragon_ hunting?”

Farkas didn’t realize he sounded far more excited than sane until after he’d spoken. He couldn’t find it in himself to care. The elf grinned, eyes like molten gold in the sunlight.

“Of course,” he said, casually tucked a stray curl behind one delicately pointed ear. Farkas internally cursed. “How else would a Dragonborn spend their time?”

“I really wouldn’t know,” Farkas said, deadpan.

He struggled to wrap his mind around chasing down a giant, fire-breathing creature from ancient legend. Farkas knew, vaguely, that it should have been terrifying, but if there was anything Farkas and the Wolf could agree on, the chance to hunt down a myth thought to be extinct for a thousand years was it. 

The Dragonborn threw his head back and laughed aloud. Farkas’ rudeness seemed to delight him. Joy.

“We’ll leave as soon as you’re ready,” the elf said, once more meandering down the Keep’s stairs at a languid pace.

Farkas followed him in a daze. “It’ll take me a few minutes to pack,” he said, absent-minded.

The mage made an abrupt about-face. Farkas nearly tripped back up the stairs to avoid him.

“That’s fine,” he said. “I’ll also need to gather some supplies. Perhaps it would be best if you met me at my home?”

Farkas blinked.

The elf’s smile reemerged like the sunrise. He turned on a heel and sauntered away. “Breezehome,” he called over his shoulder, robes billowing dramatically in the face of a particularly strong gust of wind. “Don’t be long.”

Farkas stared, blankly, torn between smacking the smug grin off that perfect face and drowning himself in the nearest fountain. He retreated to the safety of Jorrvaskr before either impulse could win out.

The elf had said don’t be long, so Farkas gave curt greetings to the Companions lingering about in the Hall and made a beeline for his room. He smelled Vilkas before he saw him emerge from his own quarters. Farkas grunted in acknowledgement but didn’t stop. His twin followed.

“So why did the Jarl need a Companion?” Vilkas’ said, propped himself against the doorframe and watched as Farkas began to pack.

“He didn’t tell me,” Farkas said, very carefully skirting that line between fib and not telling the whole truth.

He tried to focus on the task at hand: should he take his regular steel armor or his wolf armor. Wolf armor was lighter and easier to move around in, but couldn’t take a hit like his heavier armor could. Besides, against a dragon, did he really want lighter?

Vilkas’ snort drew him from his internal debate. “I know _he_ didn’t tell you, the Jarl doesn’t waste his time dealing out jobs.”

Farkas sighed. Vilkas knew him far, far too well. “It’s nothing. Just escorting some nobleman around,” The lie slipped out before Farkas could stop it. It tasted like ash on Farkas’ tongue.

His twin stiffened. “Are you lying?”

 _Yes_ , Farkas meant to say, except. “Why would I be lying?”

“You tell me,” Vilkas said, striding boldly forward to invade Farkas’ space.

The move reeked dominance and intimidation. It demanded attention and submission. It made Farkas’ blood _boil_. “Back off,” he said, voice rough and tinged with Wolf.

His twin stepped closer. “Tell me.”

Farkas exploded to his feet, standing nose-to-nose with his sibling as a deep growl rumbled from his chest. “Why do you always do this? Do you want to fight me?”

For a heartbeat, Farkas thought Vilkas was going to - finally, after years of rising and ebbing tensions - say _yes_. Then the older twin caved, baring his neck in a show of submission. It was just that: a show. Vilkas’ eyes still shone with a challenge and Farkas abruptly felt like he’d missed something.

He hated that.

Farkas wasn’t the smartest, yeah, but when his brother started acting like he knew everything, it made Farkas feel particularly stupid. It made him want to punch Vilkas, too. Holding back the urge to do just that, Farkas turned and grabbed his haphazardly packed bag before shouldering past his twin.

Vilkas’ gaze seared into his back, and Farkas marched resolute down the hall and pretended it didn’t make guilt rise like bile in the back of his throat. The younger twin knew exactly why he’d lied. Vilkas meeting the current bane of his existence was something out of a nightmare.

Ignoring that Farkas’ reactions would be devastatingly incriminating – at least those could be written off or excused – Vilkas would be able to _smell_ his twin’s arousal from a mile away.

That… would be harder to explain.

* * *

The initial quiet was stifling.

Farkas didn’t talk much to begin with, but around an elf whose very presence set his teeth on edge? The Nord had even less to say. 

Contrary to what Farkas had feared, the Dragonborn seemed perfectly content with silence. They trekked across the Skyrim plains without a word, headed north towards Mount Anthor. Apparently that’s where the dragon lurked, though it was starting to venture southward for food and wreaking havoc – and Jarl Balgruuf tolerated no danger to his people. For that reason, the dragon hunting Dragonborn. 

Said Dragonborn was all too pleased with himself, despite the absence of conversation, and Farkas had little else to do but get swept away by his own thoughts. More often than not, they revolved around the frustrating elf a few paces ahead of him.

The mage had changed into more subtle robes. Farkas recognized it as the same dark outfit the elf wore their first meeting. They smelled strongly of magic – the Wolf enjoyed the spicy essence and actively searched for the scent, now, the bastard – and when they caught the sunlight just right Farkas could see the shimmer of enchantment across the fabric. The hood was back, drawn low across the mage’s face.

Whether it intentional or not, the effect made gave the mage a mysterious edge. It reminded Farkas all to easily of the attraction he’d first experienced what felt like a lifetime ago. At least there were no Silver Hand to stab him between the ribs.

Small favors.

“So then, Farkas, what kind of work do you do for the Companions?” The question jerked the warrior from his spiraling thoughts.

“Why?” He said, then immediately bit his cheek.

His bluntness always got him into trouble around the Jarl’s court, and was one of the many reasons Kodlak only allowed him near Dragonsreach when necessary. Thankfully – or perhaps not – the mage had already proven that wasn’t the least bit put off by Farkas’ curtness. 

“Well,” the elf shortened his graceful, ridiculously long stride to walk even with Farkas. “We will be traveling together for at least a few days. There’s no reason to make that time unpleasant.”

Farkas snorted. He could think of plenty of reasons.

The thane looked down at him with a small, hopeful smile and even though his eyes remained shadowed there was something in that open expression that lessened Farkas’ irritation. He relented. “Mostly this.” A pause. “But, you know, with less Dragons.”

The Wolf chortled.

The mage laughed, too. “I would imagine so.” They fall back into silence, lighter than before.

The mage said, “Your country is beautiful.”

Farkas’ eyes flickered across the empty plains. A splattering of flowers here and there, grass always caught between death and regrowth. It looked desolate. It looked as it always did.

“Really." 

“Absolutely,” the elf waved his long arm in a wide arc, encompassing the vast space. “This land is so different from my own. It is stunning.”

Eyeing the elf, Farkas mulled over the statement. He wasn’t going to ask, he _wasn’t_ , but. “What’s so different about it?”

Curiosity killed the Wolf.

The mage swelled with glee. He had clearly been waiting for the question. “Well, my family owns an estate on the outskirts of Alinor, the capital of the Isles. It is close to the ocean and the smell of the sea in the air is offset only by the countless fauna of the inlands.” 

Farkas’ eyebrows inched steadily towards his hairline. “Right.”

But the elf wasn’t nearly close to done. It became apparent to Farkas, with a sinking feeling of despair, that the mage had been itching for a chance to talk about his homeland. Farkas had unknowingly enabled him.

It was surprisingly… endearing. Farkas viciously stomped down on that before it got out of hand. 

A few hours later, the duo continued at their marching pace. Farkas now knew more about the Summer Set Isles than he’d ever wanted to, but at least the elf had finally run out of words. They’d fallen back into a steady, if more comfortable silence.

The ‘beautiful’ landscape changed around them, from solid dirt and sparse foliage to slush and sprawling bush. Farkas noticed the drop in temperature in the unconscious, detached way of a Nord. His mind registered that it had gotten cooler, yes, but his body hardly minded. In fact, the chill felt pleasant against his higher body heat.

He didn’t pay it any thought until the mage faltered, trailing further and further behind as Farkas took the lead. Which was going to get them absolutely nowhere. All Farkas knew about Mount Anthor could be summed up in three words: north of Whiterun.

“Alright there?” Farkas called back.

The elf stopped. “Frankly, no,” he said.

Farkas saw the first crack in the mage’s cheerful demeanor. High Elves weren’t built to withstand Skyrim weather. Even the most ignorant child could have told you that. Still, it was strange for Farkas to see it in person. The elf had buried his hands deep into the sleeves of his robes, and seemed to be making very real effort to melt into his hood.

Whether it helped or not wasn’t clear, but going by the faintest sound of chattering teeth reaching Farkas’ sensitive ears, the Nord would hazard that it didn’t. After a moment, the elf moved to stand by Farkas’ side. He cast the man a jealous glare, obvious even with the cowl of his hood hanging low across his face. “Well, you look chipper,” he said, breath misting rapidly in the air. “I honestly cannot fathom how you Nords do it.”

Farkas shrugged.

The mage snorted with disgust and stomped away. “There is an inn around here somewhere,” he said over his shoulder, prim and proper if not for the way his teeth chattered through every word, “We shall bunk down there for the night and continue in the morning.”

Farkas and the Wolf laughed together for what might very well be the first time. It couldn’t be helped. The elf did an excellent impersonation of a pouting child.

The Nightgate Inn turned out to be a tricky find. Nestled securely into an outcropping of rocks and boulders, Farkas must have passed by the small tavern at least a dozen times before and never noticed. It didn’t help that, much to the mage’s chagrin, a small snow storm had swirled into existence. Nonetheless, there were only so many places the structure could hide. The pair followed a long winding path, and stumbled across it after a sharp bend. The mage’s determination faltered as they grew closer to their goal.

The inn stood alone and sorrowful against the raging storm, frozen lake and lack of life giving the wooden construction a bleak ambience. The stairs creaked mournfully under their feet and the door protested its opening with a despondent caterwaul. Farkas cringed. The Wolf’s ears twitched with distaste.

Inside, the inn hardly changed but for a welcome rise in temperature. There was only one patron lurking in the common room, slumped over his drink and exuding an air of despair. Farkas shivered beneath his chilled armor, but not from cold. The Wolf paced in the recess of his mind.

“Well,” the mage said, hesitating to swipe a tongue across chapped lips. “Well.”

Farkas agreed, though focused more on trying to look like wasn’t staring longingly at the elf’s lips. As one, they edged cautiously towards the bar. No innkeeper appeared to greet them or offer them a drink. Strange in and of itself, but the lone customer emerged from his tankard long enough to cast them a baleful glance. Curiosity satisfied, he went back to drowning himself in ale.

The mage grinned at Farkas like he was sharing some special secret. It took everything in Farkas not to smile back. Finally, a voice carried out from the back room. “Be with ye’ in a moment.”

Exactly a moment later, a Nord appeared. He was older, with a balding head that reminded Farkas of an egg and a beard like a bristly bush. The Wolf snarled as the stench of sweat and stale bread prickled across Farkas’ nose.

“Hullo there, travelers,” the man said, looking up at Farkas with a bright smile. Out of place in the ghastly inn. “Come to the Nightgate for food and lodging?”

He wavered at the sight of Farkas’ employer. The elf ignored it with ease. “That sounds wonderful, thank you.”

It seemed like the innkeeper might refuse, for a second, but he eyed Farkas and said instead, “Alright. Fifteen gold pieces per room.”

Farkas’ lip curled of its own – the Wolf’s – accord and faint growl rumbled in his throat.

The damn fetcher thought he could overcharge them? The mage seemed to agree. “ _Per_ room?” he said.

The innkeeper crossed his arms with a sneer. “You don’t like my prices then go somewhere else, elf.”

On cue, the a surge of wind battered against the inn, shaking it down to the foundation. Out of the corner of his eye, Farkas watched the mage’s hands curl into a fist.

“Fine,” the elf said. “We’ll take a room.”

The innkeeper's half-formed smirk dropped so fast Farkas might have heard it shatter against the floor. “ _A_ room?”

The thane snorted, pulled a coin purse out of his pack. “I am hardly going to pay for more than that.” 

The innkeeper turned wide eyes on Farkas, who shrugged. “I won’t pay it, either,” he said.

When the other Nord looked like he might argue, the elf slapped a handful of pieces onto the counter. “Do you have any wine?”

After a long, tense moment, the man snatched the coin. He held them in a tightly curled fist. “Aye,” he said. “But it's extra,” he cast a pointed look at the pouch. The mage dropped a couple more coins on the counter with an inelegant snort.

The Nord passed a bottle across the counter with equal reluctance.

Farkas nearly reached across the wood to punch the rat bastard across the face, but the mage laid a placating hand on his arm. He looked tired. There was something a lot like resignation in his golden eyes. Farkas told himself that was the reason he didn’t brush the hand away.

“I want ale,” he said.

“Right,” the innkeeper’s gaze flickered back and forth between them. “It’s extra.”

“Of course it is.”

* * *

There was only one bed. 

The room they’d been given, as dank and dreary as the rest of the inn, was decorated like any other. A stained rug on the stone floor. A ragged wardrobe tucked away in the corner. A pot with an old shriveled plant. A chair. A side table.

One small bed. 

The furs looked warm, at least.

Farkas gnawed on his rabbit leg, dinner as overpriced as everything else, sharp teeth cutting mercilessly into the bone. The mage hadn’t come back yet, apparently more interested in the strange Orc the innkeeper – Hadring, as he’d introduced himself only after blatantly cheating them blind – had mentioned in passing.

All the better.

It gave Farkas more time to brood over this unfortunate turn of events in peace. The bone splintered with a pitiful crack under a particularly vicious bite. Frustrated, the warrior dropped the leg back into the plate, snatched his tankard, and stalked from the room. He might pay for the another room, if it wasn’t a matter of pride now. Not a chance Farkas was giving the damn swindler of an innkeeper a single coin more than he already had.

The common room offered no distractions, but at least Farkas wouldn’t have to stare at the damn bed. “There somethin’ wrong with the room?”

Farkas glanced over his shoulder at the innkeeper. He stood behind the bar, polishing a flagon and staring the Companion up and down. Farkas scoffed. “Besides the price?”

Hadring puffed up like a scorned cat. “Excuse me?”

He almost kept going, the Wolf rumbled in the back of his mind, demanding they show the old innkeeper his place. Farkas held himself back through pure force of will. “Sorry,” he said, not sorry at all.

The older man apparently didn’t want to fight. He let the poor excuse for an apology slide and went back to polishing the flagon. Farkas continued in a more civilized tone. “The room’s just… small.”

Hadring snorted. “This is a small inn. Don’t like sharing?” Something in the man’s tone was off, and he watched for Farkas’ reaction with sharp eyes.

Farkas swallowed a violent growl. The older man, oblivious to his patron’s mood, set aside the tankard to lean across the bar. “Listen,” the bald Nord said, “you’re young. I think you can be forgiven for your mistakes. But ya’ need to choose your companions more wisely.”

For a second, Farkas thought the man meant his Companions, the shield-siblings waiting for him back in Whiterun. He nearly leapt across the bar to bash the man’s skull in. Then common sense caught up. Of course, the innkeeper was talking about the mage.

“I’ve seen enough magic in my time to know to stay away from it,” Hadring said. His meaningful glance made Farkas blink.

He hardly needed the older man’s warning to be weary of magic. The innkeeper kept looking at Farkas with some deeper implication. His Wolf examined the man with equal intensity, tongue running thoughtfully over sharp teeth, so the warrior fled the bar to sit by the fire. Half-way there, he caught sight of the single other patron and quickly veered course.

Maybe some company that wasn’t completely infuriating would help.

The other Nord watched him approach with a dull, tired expression. “Welcome,” he said. The voice of a man who didn’t speak often.

Farkas rumbled his thanks and settled onto the bench beside the other Nord.

“Fultheim.”

“Farkas.”

Fultheim toasted in greeting. Farkas thought he might like this man. The nice blade hanging from his belt certainly bolstered his opinion. “Overheard you’re having some trouble with Hadring, eh?” Fultheim spoke into his mug.

“A bit,” Farkas said, watching the innkeeper from the corner of his eye.

His company chuckled. “Ah, well, that’s the Nightgate for ya’. The beds and the beer are both lousy, if ya’ ask me.”

Farkas’ brow furrowed. “You come here a lot?”

“Where else would I go to drink?”

Farkas’ lip curled. “I can think of a few places.”

The other Nord shrugged. “But are they close?”

No, Farkas conceded, they weren’t. Personally, he thought anything was better than this piece of shit hovel. They sat and drank in silence for a time, enjoying the easy company. Eventually, Fultheim stood and retired to his room with a parting nod. Farkas toasted in farewell and the man managed a paltry smile.

A little later, Farkas settled closer to the fire pit, relishing the soothing heat across tense muscles. He was used to traveling to every corner of Skyrim but that didn’t make it any less exhausting. It was not, as a rule, the type of country that made it easy. Even for her own people.

Hadring meandered by and Farkas rolled his eyes in annoyance. The man had shuffled pointedly from one end of the inn to the other in a constant loop. He didn’t do anything, as far as Farkas could tell. Just managed to be as annoying and impossible-to-ignore as any person the warrior had ever had the displeasure of meeting.

Which said a lot.

“Do you need something?” Farkas finally took the bait, eager to get the man out of his hair.

Hadring turned, having the nerve to act surprised that Farkas had addressed him. Bastard. “You’re traveling partner mentioned you were on a quest. Sounds dangerous.”

Farkas stared at the man like he’d sprouted a second head. “Yes.”

After a moment it became clear Farkas would offer no more and the innkeeper tried again. “Then you’ll be facin’ the danger alone. Save for the mage.”

Farkas twitched. His patience ran ever thinner.

“Seems to me like it would be mighty risky.” The innkeeper’s eyes gleamed with the same look from before.

It managed to frustrate Farkas now just as much as it did then. “What’s your point?”

Hadring finally relented with a haughty sniff. “’m sure you’re no stranger to flirtin’ with danger.”

“Your point, old man.”

Hadring threw his hands in the air. “You! You’re what I’m getting at. You and that damn elf.” The older man jabbed a finger at Farkas’ chest. “It isn’t right, a Nord bedding a High Elf. Let alone a mage. Let alone another male!”

Farkas sputtered.

But the other Nord refused to stop now that he’d started. “You’re practically spitting in the face of our ancestors. What would your family say? They’d be ashamed!”

Farkas was on his feet and looming over the man before he could stop himself. He knew the Wolf leaked through, knew the innkeeper looked into his eyes and saw the golden glow of a monster, but control slid through Farkas’ fingers like water. “Say that again,” he said, voice deep and guttural.

Not his own, but the Wolf’s.

Hadring stumbled back. Farkas followed. “ _Say_ _it_ ,” the warrior dared him, “ _again_.”

The innkeeper made a sound like a wounded rabbit. The Wolf could smell blood. Farkas reined himself in with a snarl. Hadring took the chance and scrambled to put some distance between them. They eyed each other from across the room.

“It’s not the mage you have to worry about,” Farkas said.

The man’s throat bobbed. Before the situation could deteriorate further, a certain High Elf exploded into the room with all his usual flair.

“Have you eaten yet, Farkas? Because…,” The mer faltered.

He blinked, slow, looking first at Farkas, then Hadring, then back again. “Something wrong?” He said.

Farkas expected the pale innkeeper to immediately throw accusations – or throw him out. Instead, the man shook his head and quickly fled to behind the bar into the back room. The mage watched the scene with weary eyes. “Farkas?”

The Warrior remained silent. He was still angry. Still angry and insulted and ready to snap Hadring in half like a twig. More than all of that, though, he was tired. Only unblooded whelps made such stupid mistakes. The elf stepped closer.

Farkas pivoted sharply on his heel and stalked to their room. He knew the mage would be joining him sooner rather than later, but for now it offered relative safety and isolation. The sight of the single bed brought the Nord to a jarring halt.

Farkas bit the inside of his lip until blood gushed across his tongue.

It tasted like bitter defeat.

“I always forget how limited inns can be,” the mer said, about an hour later, after tentatively making his way into the room.

He stood, arms crossed, at Farkas’s side. His golden eyes examined the single bed with all the discontent Farkas had stewed in earlier. For once they agreed on something. “There is hardly any room for the one of us, let alone both.”

Or not.

“We’re not sharing,” Farkas said, left no room for argument. His Wolf grumbled.

The warrior sat at the small table, nursing his drink. He tried to make it last. No chance of another round, after all.

The mage gave him a look over his shoulder. “One of us should sleep on the floor, then?”

“I’ve slept worse places,” Farkas said.

The thane grimaced. “I am sure. That does not mean that you should force yourself to slumber on this particular floor when there is a perfectly good bed.”

Farkas snorted into his cup. Fat chance he and the elf were getting anywhere near the same bed. He knew when odds were stacked against him. As much as Farkas hated to admit it, getting that close to the Dragonborn would be asking for trouble. The Wolf’s enthusiastic insistence they hope into the cot, preferably with nothing between them but skin, only drove the point home. Unfortunately, the elf couldn’t catch the hint.

“Are you bothered because I am a mage? An Altmer?”

Oh, if only.

Farkas said nothing.

The mage rolled his eyes towards the heavens with a long-suffering sigh. Which was, frankly, ridiculous. If anyone was suffering here, it was Farkas.

“Look,” the Nord said, viciously kneading the knot of tension settling in his temples. “Give me some furs. I’ll take the floor. Problem solved.”

“That hardly seems a solution.”

The elf moved to stand before Farkas, staring down at him with a frown. It irked Farkas to no end how much _taller_ the mage was. It couldn’t be helped – High Elves weren’t just called that for their attitudes – but Farkas didn’t need to be reminded of it at every opportunity. Not that the mage necessarily did it on purpose. But if Farkas didn’t stay mad he would be swept away by how good the elf looked out of his bulky, shapeless robes and dressed in a tunic and tight pants instead. Very distracting.

 _Very_ dangerous.

“Just let me sleep on the damn floor.”

“Auri-el, give me strength.”

In the end, Farkas did sleep on floor. If only because for all his fancy talk, there was little the elf could do when Farkas settled himself down on the cold wood without a word. The mage paced around the room, gathering things and tidying up his belongings, cursing in that same lilting language Farkas remembered from the crypt.

Eventually, the mage sputtered out. Apparently exhausted, he snatched some furs off the bed and promptly dumped them onto Farkas’ face. The warrior jerked them out of the way in time to see the mage go wide eyed and flushed.

An accident.

Farkas rolled over before that blush drove him to think of other things.

“My apologies,” the mage said.

“It's fine.”

“I- very well.” The creak of the bed and the ruffle of furs. “Would you like a pillow?”

“Yes.” Farkas tried not to imagine the elf in bed.

Damn it all.

“Here, then.”

The warrior forced himself to turn.

The elf sat perched on the end of the cot, curls a wild mess on his head. He had a small, sheepish grin on his face.

 _Damn it all_. And damn mages, too.

Farkas snatched the pillow and rolled away like a skittish rabbit.

He woke the next morning to sounds of the mage mulling about the room. The brush of fabric and rustle of leather were unbearably loud in the cold silence. Farkas knew that had more to do with the Wolf than anything.

He’d given it too much freedom the night before. Handed over too much control. Now, the beast remained unhappy. It felt cheated, given a taste of a hunt that Farkas had not followed through.

The Nord calmed the Wolf with the reminder that soon, perhaps even that day, there would be better prey. It allowed itself to be appeased with a short growl. A warning. It wanted blood.

Or perhaps, the Wolf whispered, they could appease their _other_ hunger.

Farkas exploded to his feet with a strangled snarl. The damned beast wanted to drive him _mad_.

The mage stood awkwardly by the table, a piece of bread in one hand and cheese in the other, a small sound of surprise sliding from his throat.

Farkas grimaced.

He’d forgone unpacking the night before, knowing they wouldn’t be staying long. He was especially grateful for that as he grabbed his pack from its place by the door and beat a hasty retreat. Just the thought left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Him? A Companion? Who just kept running away?

But _Divines_ , Farkas didn’t know what else to do.

**Author's Note:**

> Just in case nobody read the initial A/N, I want to reiterate again that there will be periods of homophobia and prejudice in this story, but I in no way condone these attitudes or opinions. If anyone is interested, I will try to keep my posts to a regular, weekly schedule, but I do work A LOT and will not always have time to bust these babies out. On that note, thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed what I had to offer.


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